Chapter 9
Good people! Your intrepid palace correspondent behind palace lines has just experienced something rather unexpected: Prince Max being genuinely helpful without a single theatrical sigh. Alert the press!
Oh wait, I am the press.
This morning's adventure began when our beloved royal rogue performed archery with the kind of skill one would expect from a royal prince, aka an impressive display of athleticism with a Robin Hood vibe.
Catch my video on my socials for all the arrow-focused action.
Then, he asked me to try it. What do you think I said? Of course! My first attempt was... well, if hostile forces were attacking from ground level, I'd have shown them who's boss. The arrow achieved what I can only describe as the world's most pathetic arc, landing a mere meter away at my feet.
But here's where things got interesting. Instead of enjoying my incompetence from a safe distance, Prince Max offered to help. Properly help.
Following his guidance, I drew back, exhaled, and released. The arrow sliced through the air with satisfying purpose and hit the bullseye. A bullseye! On my second attempt.
Which brings me to the real story: your favorite royal rogue may be far more complex than any of us realized. The man who patiently taught me archery, who celebrated my success with genuine enthusiasm isn’t the shallow party prince I've been writing about for years.
The question remains: which version is real?
Yours,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#BowAndTellAll
#RoyalAimGam
#PrinceOnPoint
Valentina
I finish my edits and check the video, syncing it to a trending sound that works perfectly with the content. In the opening image, Max is holding his bow taut, his eyes focused on the target, his broad shoulders accentuated by the twist in his torso.
He looks good. Very good. Confident, athletic, handsome.
My followers are going to lap this up.
I add the hashtags #RoyalAimGame and #PrinceOnPoint before I publish it to several social media platforms. Within seconds, the views begin, and people start to like and comment.
The first few are super positive.
Robin Hood, but royal
Excuse me, who gave him the right to look that good with a bow?
Bullseye? More like heart-eyes
The comments are peppered with some less than positive, too.
Cute. Now, someone get the man-child a juice box before his nap.
All biceps, no brain.
Someone had better take away the sharp objects.
He might be able to hit a bullseye, but can he hit a day’s work?
Something twists in my gut, something I’ve not felt before when it comes to my coverage of the prince. If I’m not mistaken, it feels a lot like guilt.
Guilt? Why? I can't be responsible for every single member of the country’s perception of this man, nor the fact that people make up their minds based on what they see.
But I have been the leading media voice about the prince’s playboy ways. It’s hard not to think I’m somewhat responsible.
I scroll down through more comments, most of them the usual mix of royal worship and criticism, when one catches my eye. It's from @MThorneThePost.
Great technique demonstration, HRH! @Fabiana_Fontaine has certainly captured you.
At first glance, it seems like an innocent enough compliment, but something about it sets my teeth on edge. I click on her profile and see her name is Miranda Thorne, a journalist from The Post. I scroll through her other recent comments on my posts.
Beautiful video of the Blue Drawing Room. You captured the morning light perfectly. You clearly know the best angles at the palace already.
This wasn’t your first visit to The Throne Room, was it? Because you look so at home there.
Her comments could be read as professional admiration, but together they feel like something else entirely. It’s like she's noting how familiar I am with the palace, how easily I navigate spaces that should be foreign to me.
I click my phone off. I’m being paranoid. I’ve heard of her, of course—Ledonia isn’t exactly huge—but she doesn’t know me.
I dismiss it as just my fear of being discovered rearing its ugly head.
Sliding my dress on, I reach behind myself to zip it up. I slip on my heels and turn to the full-length mirror in the corner of my room. Its gilded edges scream wealth and history along with everything else in the room. But then royalty isn’t exactly known for its decorative restraint.
I slide my gaze over my dress. Probably because they assumed I’d neither have the right kind of clothing for tonight’s function nor have any clue how to actually dress for it, a member of staff materialized with a selection of beautiful dresses, wheeling a rail into my rooms this afternoon.
I was like a kid in a candy store, choosing between the jewel-toned dresses and sparkling accessories.
I chose an elegant, deep-blue silk strapless dress.
It skims my curves and makes my skin look luminous.
It’s sophisticated and a touch sexy, tasteful and expensive, the kind of dress I used to dream about wearing when I was twelve and still believed in fairy tales.
But happily ever after only happens in stories.
I smooth my hair, twisting and pinning it into an appropriate low bun. I pull a few tendrils from the sides to frame my face before I slide on my glasses. Without them, I’m exposed, more like Valentina Romano than Fabiana Fontaine.
The woman staring back at me right now is somewhere between the two.
Tonight, I’ve got to retain my Fabiana edge, no matter what happens. Here, it’s more important than ever that I fly under the radar. I can’t have anyone looking at me sideways, trying to place me from my past.
But the woman looking back at me through her fake glasses? She looks put-together and confident. Beautiful even. Nothing like the frightened twelve-year-old who fled this palace in disgrace.
You’ve got this.
Only… have I?
Because I’m finding being here in the palace, spending time with Max, there’s something building, something new.
Something entirely unexpected. Not only am I being forced to face my demons by being in this palace, which is hard enough, but now every time I see the man I’d once written off as a shallow party boy, I feel this undeniable pull to him.
A pull that’s growing stronger and stronger with each passing day.
Back when I first met him with his puppy in the carpark, he was rude and abrasive, clearly unhappy about having to work with me. His disdain for me is about as discreet as a prince at a nightclub.
That’s the Max I could handle. That’s the Max I knew. The Max I expect.
Since then, I’ve seen a different side of him. Firstly, as he spoke with staff on the palace tour. Then in his office, when I finally tracked him down and we called a truce. The intensity of his gaze, the touch of his skin against mine…
My breath hitches at the memory, and I close my eyes.
I barely got through the archery lesson this morning.
It took what I feel for him to a whole other level.
It was hard to keep my head together. His touch as he guided my arrow, the low rasp of his voice, the smell of him, his warm, firm body so close behind me?
It was almost too much, and I had to force myself to focus on shooting the arrow and not on… him.
And the scary thing? The way he acted made me wonder if he felt this thing between us, too. Could that be why he pulled back from me so abruptly? Why he made up some lame excuse about a dentist’s appointment and walked away from me, like he was fleeing a crime scene?
Because that’s exactly what it felt like to me.
And you know what? I was grateful he did it. If he hadn’t… No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
I cannot go there with this man. End of story.
Brilliant. Just brilliant, Valentina.
I know what the smart thing would be to do.
I should pack my bags, tell the king I cannot carry out this project, and hightail it back to Nona.
The king would have no trouble believing that the differences his son and I have are simply too great for me to be able to present the country with an unbiased view.
And he told me himself he had other journalists vying for the job.
It would be an easy way out. Over with.
Done.
But dang it! The money and the boost to my career are just too good to pass up.
I need this. Nona needs this.
I’ve got no choice.
I bite down on my lip, my hands clenched. I'm standing here in front of this mirror in this gorgeous dress with my knees wobbling like a newborn foal at the thought of him.
It’s ridiculous. Laughable!
I push out a breath.
There’s only one option open to me. I need to keep my distance from him, at least physically. I need to ensure I never put myself in the position I was in at the archery lesson again.
Physical attraction is one thing, but the last thing I can do is develop feelings for my enemy’s son.
With an application of lipstick—battle-ready red, naturally—I take one final steadying breath before I collect my clutch and make my way down the hallway, with its deep red carpet and high ceilings.
The painted eyes of dead royals follow me as I leave the private rooms and enter the formal area.
Instantly, my heels click against the marble floor, the sound echoing around me in this hallway.
I pass the entrance to the Red Salon and slow my pace. Without even thinking about why I’m doing it, I grip one of the door handles and push my way inside.
The room looks the same as it did in my memories, although maybe a little smaller.
The red and gold silk wallpaper, the huge Venetian mirror above the ornate marble fireplace, the collection of delicate objects on the mahogany side table by the window.
It all combines to create an atmosphere that’s both grand and austere, and a cold shiver prickles my skin.
This is where it happened.
This is where I crouched behind these doors all those years ago, watching through the crack as the king announced my father’s disgrace to a roomful of officials.